


One Step Closer

by wilyasha



Series: Firewall [11]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alien Culture, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blood, F/M, Gen, Gore, Language, Minor Character Death, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-19
Updated: 2017-09-25
Packaged: 2018-12-31 11:31:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12131526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wilyasha/pseuds/wilyasha
Summary: Her father is more rigid, more cruel, and she cannot stomach the thought of him destroying Altea.





	1. Part One

**Author's Note:**

> This entire series really diverges from the canon timeline and ventures into AU territory. This interlude story in particular takes place a few days before Altea is destroyed.
> 
> Content Warnings: This fic, and this series in its entirety, features a main original character with a heavy emphasis on canon divergence. There is political intrigue, institutionalized racism within an alien species, and a minor murder scene.

The flight from Gal to Central Command lasts two vargas. She gazes out the window at the gaping maw of the void. In the distance, stars twinkle and a purple-red nebula distorts the expanse. She’d prefer to look at anything else other than the guards around her. _For protection,_ Sendak had said a phoeb prior. Larka can’t help but feel like he’s monitoring her and it fills her belly with a sloshing uneasiness. She doesn’t need the protection. She needs to breathe, far away from this catastrophe that has become the Galra Empire.

Every quintant, the Emperor moves on to another planet. Every quintant, another world collapses beneath his bayard. Her father is like a beast, hunting for the Black Lion and the friends who have betrayed him. 

The transport ship lands in Central Command’s largest hanger. The Imperial hub is a thorny tangled stretch of space stations and ships that had managed to leave Daibazaal before its untimely fate. When the Emperor had resumed leadership, he sought to fortify them. Despite him giving her Gal, Larka knows Central Command is what truly represents the Galra Empire. The exterior of the station is as cold and jagged as its leader. 

She has only been aboard Central Command a handful of times since the war began, opting instead to stay on the Gal colony where she can breathe fresh air and keep her feet planted on solid ground. She hates recycled air and artificial gravity.

As she walks down the steep ramp, a druid arrives swathed in a dark brown robe. The druid bows deeply.

“It is a pleasure to have you aboard the station again, Your Imperial Highness,” the druid says. His voice sounds young, but his face looks worn. 

Larka keeps walking and the druid only follows. 

“My deepest apologizes, but the summit started doboshes ago,” the druid continues, nearly floating to keep up with Larka’s long strides. 

“I’m sure I missed something exciting,” she says, dryly. 

The druid doesn’t know what to do about her sarcasm as an awkwardness settles uneasily between them. He leads them through the strange winding corridors. Two deca-phoebs into this war and the station still looks like it might break apart. It’s a briar patch of old metal and is in desperate need of renovations. Clearly, the Emperor’s priorities are elsewhere. 

The druid leads her to large hall that functions as a war room. The doors are thrown open by guards at the druid’s behest and Larka enters the stuffy chamber. It is a narrow hall with a long dining table populated by commanders and druids of the highest order. Holographic screens panel the walls showing maps of distant planets and Galra outposts. One planet grabs her attention. A dazzling, luminescent blue marble with faint rings that twinkles in the strange red and purple hologram. Altea. 

“You’re late.” Zarkon. His voice is rugged and ancient to her ears. 

She finally looks away from the map of Altea to see many of the people at the table staring at her. She supposes she looks dazed and confused as she takes in the sights. Zarkon sits at the head of the table. His hands are steepled in front of him upon the table. Standing to his right is Haggar, the witch that seemingly appeared out of thin air with arcane magic and a troupe of dark magicians. Seated to his right is Sendak, eyes glowing an eerie yellow. It makes her shudder in revulsion at how eager he was to consume the quintessence that Hagger placed in front of him and so many other Galra. To the left, of what appears to be Larka’s own seat, sits Lotor. And thank the Ancients, his eyes haven’t changed. She had spoken to him before she had left for Gal. _Don’t consume anything the witch gives you. Eat in private._ She’s glad that her brother has listened to her for once. She cannot say the same for herself. She knows her eyes have changed. They burn constantly when she needs another rush of quintessence in her veins and through her nerves. She feels herself becoming reliant on it and she knows it’s effecting others, too. It’s an addiction; she now understands how her mother had succumb to its whims and desires. 

“My apologizes, Father,” she says, nearly speed-walking to take her place between Lotor and Zarkon. “I did not mean to be tardy,” she adds as she sits down.

Sendak smiles from across the table, appraising her. She briefly smiles back.

“Where were you?” Her father asks. If there is one thing she misses most about her father, it is his stuttering bashfulness. She wants to violently recoil away from the monotone personality in front of her. 

“On Gal,” she answers, not wishing to incur his wrath, “overseeing a project.”

“What sort of project?” Sendak asks, smirking. 

Larka fights the urge to roll her eyes. He isn’t trying to get a rise out of her, but she’s not stupid enough to think he gives a quiznak about the work she does.

“I’ve delegated an assignment to her,” Haggar answers for her, and for once Larka is thankful that the witch sides with her quite often enough. “We’re building a druid temple, an archival station for all the experiments the druidic order pursues. Princess Larka is overseeing construction.”

“That task seems a bit too lowly… truly _rustic_ for the heir apparent to be partaking in,” says a soldier a few seats away from Sendak. 

“I’m not just overseeing the construction. I’m helping our people build a planet, a new Daibazaal. And I like the work,” she says, gaze flickering to her father, half-expecting him to agree with the commander and pull the project from her hands. He always believed in their caste system, this wouldn’t be any different. With his resurrection, her father has only put more emphasis on rank. “I enjoy working with my hands. It helps me focus.”

Before the soldier can make another remark, her father speaks. 

“My daughter has always been eager to work with the peons and commoners, Commander Pyketh. Perhaps we should all learn from her paradigm,” Zarkon says. He turns to Larka. “But do not be late again.”

“Yes, Father,” she nods, sinking down into her seat, thankful that she got away with her tardiness. Lotor snickers beside her, but she ignores him in favor of vaguely listening to the conversation. She hears bits and pieces: more outposts are being built in the farthest reaches of the Empire’s territory, a few planets have bent their knee to Zarkon’s throne, an unfortunate event of one planet being destroyed during Haggar’s experiments. Whatever remained of that planet, nothing could be mined from it.

Larka imagines a web of rock and plasma and quintessence, a rotten graveyard of a world slowly spreading and spreading within its solar system. She wonders if the people could evacuate in time. When she’s about to ask the question, the conversation has moved on. 

At one point, she feels Lotor kicking his feet, sighing too loudly that she’s almost sure their father will hear. Lotor is fourteen. He shouldn’t even be attending a summit. He looks bored out of his mind and rather desperate to leave the room. Perhaps she’ll invite him to come with her to Gal. She has a spare bedroom at her private Imperial apartments. Maybe fresh air and some actual gravity would do him—

“…Altea?” 

Larka’s ears perk up. _Altea? What about Altea?_ She almost curses herself for daydreaming at what is clearly such an important assembly.

“The priority is finding the Black Lion,” Zarkon remarks. “That should be everyone’s focus. Once the Black Lion is retrieved from those traitors, everything else will fall into its proper place.” 

“There is a power vacuum on one of the Altean colonies a few star systems from the Daibazaal ruins,” Commander Pyketh says. “Perhaps they are loyal to the Empire. We should assist them, bring them to Central Command—”

“Did you not hear your Emperor?” Lotor demands. Larka’s eyes widen as she looks at her brother. His upper lip is curled in disgust as he glares at Pyketh. “The only Alteans who have been invited into our fold are the ones who were upon Daibazaal before its untimely murder. You would do well to remember that, Commander.” His voice is venomous and harsh to Larka’s ears. This isn’t the little boy she had wanted to protect since childhood. She frowns, her gaze turning to the map of Altea on the paneled wall. 

Pyketh sputters for a moment, before turning to Zarkon. “Your Imperial Majesty, I meant no harm, only that the allegiances we gain will only help our expansion.”

“Or bring insurgency within our homes!” Lotor continues publicly berating the seasoned soldier. “If they fight their own king, what makes you think they won’t create an upheaval _here_?”

“Why you little half-breed scum,” Pyketh spits, his face flushed dark purple and uncaring to those around. “What wars have you fought in, boy? I’ll remember your words when you know how to pick up a blade like a true Galra.”

Larka is surprised she doesn’t have to grip Lotor’s arm to keep him from climbing across the table to throttle the commander. He only grits his teeth and clenches his fists. 

“You and your sister should have had your brains dashed against the nearest wall the moment after you both crawled from that Altean whore’s cunt,” Pyketh continues. He stills at his own words, as if he just realized the ramification of his outburst. 

Larka knows the whispers, the bitterness that many of the full-blooded Galra have against hybrids. But this vitriol has never been pelted so harshly and contained so much sweet poison. They just lost their mother two deca-phoebs ago and the reality of that fissure leaves Larka reeling. Dimly, she looks around the room. Many of the commanders and mystics look at Pyketh with disgust or pity. Her own betrothed seems to have stood up at some point to perhaps challenge Pyketh, but the soldier beside him keeps him at bay. 

Zarkon slowly stands, hands firmly planted on the edge of the table. He straightens up, his glowing purple gaze narrowed on Pyketh.

“Sire, please,” he whimpers. His bluster and sanctimonious nationalism is gone. “I give you my humblest apologizes,” he bows his head and sinks lower into his seat. “I allowed my unwarranted anger to get the best of me.”

“Enough,” says the Emperor. “Your words contradict each other.” He walks around the table, slowly, before standing right behind Pyketh. “With one breath, you claim to wish to help an Altean colony. In the other, you demean my children and wish to kill them.” The commander is shocked not knowing whether to grovel or run. Zarkon puts a heavy, large hand on the crown of Pyketh’s head. “What is it that you truly wish for?” 

Larka watches with wide eyes and shaking hands as Zarkon squeezes, his hand dwarfing the man’s skull. There is a scream, shrill and child-like, before the sound of bone and brain and cartilage crunching together. There’s a wet, suckling noise as blood and meat splatters across the table. The soldier beside Pyketh recoils as a chunk of brain hits his cheek and smears down his face to land in his lap. Zarkon squeezes again. Raw gore squelches around the Emperor’s fingers. When he is done, he shoves what remains of Pyketh’s head against the table. With his clean hand, Zarkon cracks open the back portion of Pyketh’s cuirass armor with ease, revealing the commander’s under-armor flight suit. He uses the compression fabric to wipe clean his hand, but Larka is entirely focused on the deceased commander’s hand twitching on the table by the punctured eye socket. Bloody viscous liquid oozes from the empty hole that stares at her. Zarkon says no words, he doesn’t need to; he only walks back to his seat at the table. 

The table is quiet and she takes the opportunity to speak.

“Father,” she says. “The Black Lion… What if Alfor has destroyed him? What if he’s destroyed the entire pride?”

Emperor Zarkon steeples his fingers again as if he didn’t just kill a man in front of his entire council.

“I’ll destroy Altea.”

\--

When the summit is adjourned, Larka promises to dine with Lotor and Sendak later. She manages to deflect all ambassadors and druids that head in her direction, eager to speak with her, by using alternative routes back to her personal quarters aboard the station. For much of the day, she keeps herself busy by rigging a portable proxy relay and encrypts her frequency. 

With a heavy heart and shaking hands she toggles the frequency code and waits, listening to the outgoing beeps. Her palms sweat, clammy and nearly slimy in the chilly bedroom. 

Finally, a familiar face picks up the video feed, primping himself as if he’s looking in a mirror. 

“Hello, this is Coran, the gorgeous—”

“Coran!” Larka hisses in exasperation. She didn’t spend the last few vargas coding and encrypting to joke around with Coran. But the Altean man makes her heavy heart elated. 

“Princess Larka!” He nearly shouts. “W-w-wha-what? What are you doing? How did you?”

“Coran, there isn’t any time,” she says, speaking over his bafflement and stuttering. “This is urgent. I need an audience with my uncle! Please!”

“What? I don’t understand! Larka, there isn’t—”

“My father is about to do something and I n-need, I need to stop it, please!” She feels hot tears streaming down her face and in a fit of paranoia, she looks towards the door as if at any moment her father will barge in and crush her skull with his bare hands. “I don’t know how much time is left, but please! Have him hail me on this frequency and I’ll find a way to Altea. My father will do anything, _anything_ ,” she reiterates, “to get the Lions. Please! I need to talk to Uncle.” 

She doesn’t know if it’s the desperation in her voice or the fact that she mentioned the Lions, but Coran nods in understanding. 

“I’ll hail you in one varga.” Coran signs off.


	2. Part Two

“Why are you returning to Gal so soon?” Lotor asks, leaning back in his seat. The dining hall is empty save for them, Sendak, and the servants. “I thought you would be staying for at least a fort-quint.”

“I told you already,” she says, spearing a slice of gravy-covered meat with her utensil. “This project is my priority.”

She’s lying. Again. She feels as if this is the only thing she does these quintants. She feels Sendak’s gaze on her as she pushes the food in her mouth and swallows without chewing. Her eyes water at the sensation. Larka is only keeping up with appearances, following the directive she laid out for herself when the summit had ended. 

Lotor chuffs, rolling his eyes. “I think you just want to keep busy and not stay at Central Command.”

He isn’t wrong.

“When we are married, you will have to relocate. Have a subordinate take over the construction and you can delegate from here,” Sendak remarks. 

It’s a struggle for her not to grit her teeth. She masks the motion by chewing on the next cut of bloody meat. Larka inclines her head in understanding. She’d rather swallow glass than listen to him prattle on about what she should be doing. 

The dinner ends quickly with her saying her goodbyes. She has one opportunity and she has little time for mistakes. With a boiling uneasiness, Larka knows she doesn’t have a plan. She’s reckless. She needs to get to Gal. She needs a ship. 

Larka ventures to her father’s private chamber. A guard slides open the door before letting her in. It closes with a rush of cool air behind her. The inhabitants of the room turn to face her. Her father sits at a large metal desk while a few high-ranking commanders stand on the other side. She has no doubt that they are planning for an invasion. 

“Larka,” her father says. “What brings you here at such a varga?”

She slowly walks towards him. The commanders bow at the waist as she passes them. 

“I wanted to see you before I left,” she says, pursing her lips before kissing him on the cheek. She doesn’t care if they watch her. The commanders’ faces are stony, but Zarkon is still her father no matter how much he thirsts for power and immortality. 

She chances a quick glance at the open screens and holograms on his desk. Star charts for several systems, a tesseract animation of their current galaxy, a globe of Altea and a model of its solar system. 

“You are leaving?” he asks, voice harsh.

“Returning to Gal,” she says, unprompted. “I have to resume my work there. I will only get in your way here.”

Zarkon nods tightly, dismissing her curtly before speaking with the commanders. She glances over at them as she walks out of the emperor’s private chamber. None of them look perturbed that one of their own just had their skull smashed by Zarkon’s own hand. If anything, it appears to be business as usual, unless his actions instilled the fear that was intended. 

Larka heads to the hanger, avoiding the druids and the troupe’s leader. Haggar will only hinder her if the old witch catches her eye, needing to speak about something utterly unwarranted and time consuming. She manages to leave Central Command with an outbound transportation unit a varga later. Thankfully without guards. A few sentries mill about, shifting cargo and weapons from Central Command to the new colony of Gal. Her leg jumps nervously.

Alfor hasn’t hailed her yet and it’s been three vargas. Coran had said to give him _one_. What if the king doesn’t believe her? What if she has too much of her father in her for her uncle to trust her again? Were the Galra hated on Altea so quickly? Or perhaps it has always, truly been like that… Perhaps Commander Pyketh had been right. She and her brother aren’t Galra, they are barely Altean. 

The transport ship lands haphazardly on a landing pad south of the new city in a depot district solely used for resources. She realizes in her anxious thoughts that she still has no plan. But when her communicator buzzes in the folds of her robes, her eyes widen with relief. She walks to an empty kiosk away from the bustling port. She tabs the audio and places it to her ear. 

“Hello?”

“Larka,” says Alfor’s familiar soothing voice. “Where is your video feed?”

“I’m on the move,” she answers, “on Gal.”

“How _urgent_ does Coran mean?” His question is simple. There are no pleasantries between them anymore. Not since the death of her mother. 

“Life and death,” she says. “He’s after the Lions.”

There’s a low sigh on the other side of the frequency. She can hear him swallowing.

“How much time do we have?”

“I don’t know,” she says. “I can’t use a Teludav. I won’t be able to get my hands on that kind of tech without being noticed.”

“And I can’t send for you.” His tone is straightforward. She grimaces, as if it is her fault for her uncle’s unemotional response. He’s obviously stressed. It makes her uncomfortable, knowing that her uncle struggles with the responsibility that comes with leadership. 

“I’ll give you three vargas to get here, understood?” 

Larka nods, as if Alfor can see her.

“Yes, Uncle.”

The Altean king signs off before she can say anything else. 

\--

“You need what?!” he sputters.

“I need an unmarked ship, Kolivan. Can you do it or not?” Larka asks, after barging into the man’s quarters at the barracks. 

Kolivan and Larka had attended many of the same classes together at the academy. He was older than her by a few years, but they had formed a decent friendship in their time studying together. But right now, he looks unhappy. A large scowl takes up most of his face and he keeps tugging on his thick white hair coiled high in a topknot at the crown of his head. If he pulls any harder, he’ll go bald prematurely. 

“And you’re telling me,” he continues, “that you can’t even explain why you need this unmarked ship.”

“I could, but,” she sighs, “and let me be completely honest, I don’t know you that well.”

His scowl deepens. “We spent four hundred vargas in the span of a deca-phoeb interning at the same law bureau.”

She tugs on her braid nervously. “I have to get to Altea.”

“What?” He asks, thick brows furrowing.

“I need to get to Altea,” she says. “It’s urgent.”

“Larka, we’re at war with Altea right now,” he explains, as if she’s a kit who knows no better. “I know you have family there, but we all had to pick sides.”

“Well, right now, this side is wrong,” she nearly yells, her voice already strained. She doesn’t have time for this. “We’re about to execute a plan that our people can’t come back from, Kolivan. I can explain to you everything in detail later, but please, can you get me a ship?”

Kolivan purses his lips, scrutinizing her with his yellow gaze. She’s asking him to do something that he probably can’t come back from either. His professional career is on the line. She could always pull rank, but she doesn’t want to do that. She’s asking as a friend.

“I can do one better,” he says.

She cocks her head inquisitively. 

“I can get you a pilot.”

\--

“And you’re sure he will do this?” 

“For you?” Kolivan scoffs, leading her to the hanger at the edge of the base. “Yeah, he’ll do anything.”

She narrows her eyes, but ignores the quip.

“What does he do?”

“A little bit of everything,” Kolivan answers. “He teaches a lot of cadets on the base, but he’s really into tinkering with the ships. I’m sure he’s coded something that will get you out of here.”

Larka nods. Kolivan takes her to end of the hanger. There are only a few soldiers going about their daily activities, but the only thing they do is bow as she walks by. They reach the end where a space shuttle is anchored. Beneath the spacecraft, Larka can only see someone’s long legs. The rest of the pilot’s body is practically buried beneath the tech, spooled out cables and wires.

Kolivan softly kicks at the pilot’s ankle. “Hey, get up here.”

“I’m busy.” 

“I’m sure you are,” Kolivan smirks, “but you have a guest. Don’t be impolite.”

There’s an exaggerated huff and the pilot scrambles out from beneath the cables and consoles. When he straightens up, she wants to laugh. There is dark grease smeared across the man’s forehead. Even with that he’s still attractive, with furred ears and mauve coloring. He’s tall, too, with a strong jaw and high cheekbones. He looks like a farmer’s son.

The pilot looks over at Kolivan. “What is it?” And then he looks at her and he stills. His ears flatten back, his eyes growing wide in surprise above his flushed cheeks. 

The expression looks familiar and try as she might, she can’t recall who he is. 

“Larka, this is Thace,” Kolivan says, his eyes filled with mirth. “Thace, this is Larka.”

There’s an awkward silence that only breaks when Kolivan finally clears his throat.

“Thace, she needs your help.”

That breaks him out of his stupor, furrowing his eyebrows and swiveling his ears. “My help?”

“I need to get to Altea undetected,” she explains hastily. As cute as Thace is when he’s baffled, she doesn’t have the time for this flirtatious stammering. 

“Altea? Are you infiltrating—”

Kolivan interrupts, “No you need to get her out of our territory undetected.” 

“And then bring me back,” Larka adds.

There’s a slow pause. Thace clears his throat, momentarily bemused. “The both of you do realize we’re at war with Altea?”

“King Alfor is expecting me in three vargas,” she says, pulling her communicator out of her pocket to check the time. “Alright, two vargas.”

Thace scrubs the palm of his hand against his forehead anxiously, smearing the grease across to his temples. He turns around, silently bending over as he shoves the wiring back into the shuttle’s under compartment and maneuvering the consoles out of the way. 

“We won’t take this one,” he says abruptly. “She’s probably not stable.”

“You’ll help me?” Larka asks, overjoyed that she has a route to Altea. “Thank you so much!”

“Yeah, well I can’t just let you step on enemy territory by yourself,” Thace says.

Kolivan snorts back a chuckle. 

\--

Larka is baffled by Thace’s ingenious. He modified a shuttle with a cloaking device, making repairs to its hull from a clunky old model to a sleeker espionage-class jet used for interstellar travel. Kolivan kept back, making sure that the guards of the specific hanger were distracted enough for Thace and Larka to climb into the shuttle. Thace cloaked the spacecraft before they even left the colony.

The flight is quiet as Thace makes sure the coordinates were set correctly in the navigation console. Larka keeps to herself. The inside of the shuttle is nearly as cold as the void outside, but she doesn’t complain, only stabilizes the inner components of the flight suit Thace had tossed her way. 

She was nervous, uncomfortable even. Would Alfor listen to what she must say? Would he believe her desperate pleas? He would need to evacuate the entire planet in a limited amount of time. She has no idea what his hypothetical plan would be for the Lions. Zarkon will stop at nothing in getting back his Lion, and by extension Voltron. For what nefarious plans, Larka doesn’t fully know but she does have a limited understanding.

“So, are you going to explain to me why we’re sneaking out of Galra territory?” Thace asks as he toggles the ship to accelerate.

“Not really,” Larka counters. She chuffs before looking at his profile. His gaze is steady on the space outside the window. She checks the dashboard. They’ll arrive at their destination in thirty doboshes. “But you’re taking a huge risk for me, so you should know.”

“It’s nothing,” Thace’s cheeks darken. 

“No, this is really important,” she says, taking a deep breath and exhaling through her mouth. “My father is planning to destroy Altea if he doesn’t get his hands on the Black Lion. I don’t know if I can stop him myself, but I can at least help King Alfor evacuate or plan a strategy.”

Thace is silent, almost stiffening in his seat. 

“Something,” she mutters under her breath. “I have to do something.”

“You know, my sire was stationed at the rift,” Thace says, unprompted. “He saw a lot of crazy things go on down there. He didn’t really agree with the research and the experiments. He was in favor of closing it.”

“What does this have to do with Altea?” she asks, rather brusquely.

Thace cracks a smile, looking her way. “I’m saying a lot of people didn’t agree with what was going on in the capitol. So, I understand what you’re trying to accomplish.”

Larka chews on her lower lip, taking a glance at Thace.

“How angry are they?” she asks, softly. “Losing Daibazaal… There are so many people that my father hasn’t addressed. He’s solely focused on the military and the druids.”

“I’m usually stuck on that base, so I don’t really speak with many on the outskirts of the city,” Thace explains. “But I think people are mostly upset by the war. We’re fighting too many people, taking over too many worlds. That wasn’t what it was like for people our age... growing up I mean. We had Voltron.”

Larka narrows her eyes, scrutinizing his profile again.

“What?” he asks, peering at her from the corner of his eye. “I got that grease off my face, right?”

Larka switches the overhead toggle to turn on the autopilot. He watches her silently, but nearly jerks in his seat when she leans towards him, her soft hand gripping his chin and gently shifting him to face her. A look of recognition crosses over her face.

“I remember you,” she says with a soft smile. “It was one of my last commencement speeches. You look so familiar and I couldn’t remember where I saw you. The pilot academy outside of Drule?” 

Thace nods, “I remember. I wouldn’t forget that.”

His face is flushed and Larka can feel her own cheeks heat up. She lets go of his chin.

“I thought it was a really good speech,” Thace continues hastily. “You were beautiful. I-It… it was beautiful. Quiznak! It was a beautiful speech, Princess.”

Larka tries to stifle her laughter, her face heating up even more. His nervousness and stammering is almost endearing. 

“Well, I thought you were cute,” she continues. "You've only grown more attractive."

Thace becomes even more flustered, turning back to the dashboard and switching the overhead autopilot toggle off. She almost wants to smash her forehead against the dashboard because of her own forwardness and embarrassment. The remaining minutes are mostly held in silence, other than the beeps and noises made by the ship’s consoles and dashboard. 

“What will you do if they don’t choose to evacuate?” Thace asks once they are granted entrance into Altean space. 

Larka feels her brow sweat. She does not want that to happen. She wants her family to realize that this is the only way for them to protect the Lions and themselves. _Leave Altea._ Leave Altea before her father can arrive with his dreadnaughts and warships and cannons. They land a few ticks later and are ushered to one of the many castles of the citadel by armed guards. She can see the Castle of Lions not too far in the distance and for just a moment she feels it pull deep in her gut. She feels short of breath, a hitch in her throat as if she wants to cough. The guards take them both deep in to the bowels of the largest castle. Her legs burn and ache from all the walking, but she keeps going even as the guards open a set of tall, white double doors. 

She is hit with a sense of déjà vu. This room, although brighter, is narrow and filled with one long table and a series of observation screens. King Alfor’s private war room. The only people in the room are her aunt, Advisor Coran, and what remains of the paladins of Voltron. 

“Larka, who is this?” Alfor asks, not looking up from the console in front of him where Gyrgan keeps pressing wildly at the screen. Trigel rolls her eyes, walking over to shove herself between them and take over. For just a moment, she feels like a child again, watching goofy adults act like kits. 

Larka’s gaze shifts to Thace by her side. He places his right fist over his heart and bows at the waist. 

“King Alfor,” he says. “I’m Officer Thace. It’s an honor to meet you.”

Alfor looks up casting his gaze between his niece and the pilot beside her.

“Larka, who is he?”

“An ally, Uncle,” she pauses, “a friend.”

“I apologize for Alfor’s rudeness,” Queen Amue says, sweeping over to embrace Larka.

“I understand,” she admits. “There is no room for pleasantries with so many people’s lives at risk.”

“Coran said that your message was urgent?” Amue continues. 

“Father plans to invade Altea in his search for the Black Lion,” she explains, quickly. “I’m even certain that he would rather gather the Lions of Voltron just to be able to control the defender in its entirety. I wasn’t able to gather much information. Everything happened so fast and I… I wasn’t trained for this. But I have reason to believe it has something to do with the quintessence and whatever my mother’s goals had originally been. I’m sure he believes Voltron was wasted potential and if he controls the Black Lion, he’ll control all of them.”

“That’s impossible,” Gyrgan says. “Right?”

“Zarkon is incorrect,” Trigel adds.

“He can’t control the Black Lion,” Alfor starts. “He can’t control any of the Lions. The Lions choose their paladin. Surely, Black will know Zarkon has been corrupted. We don’t need to worry about him taking control of any of the Lions.”

“You don’t understand,” Larka says, mildly annoyed.

“We will have to handle the impending invasion,” Alfor continues. “Trigel, Gyrgan, I do not fault either of you if you wish to return to your worlds.”

“He’s not going to stop with Altea!” Larka shouts, panicking. “One of the commanders at the war room summit spoke of one of your colonies. He reported that there is insurgency, a rebellion against your throne. They don’t believe you can protect them.”

“We will evacuate that moon and bring the colonists back to the homeworld,” Alfor says, hastily.

“You don’t understand, Uncle,” she says. “He murdered that commander in front of everyone at the table. He crushed his skull and it was like he felt nothing, like that man’s life meant _nothing_. If he’ll destroy someone on his own council who speaks up against him or his family, he’ll destroy Altea for doing less. And then he’ll turn his gaze to the Dalterion Belt and Rygnirath.”

The room is quiet and she feels Thace shift closer to her, his hand pressing against her shoulder in comfort. 

“You don’t think that I don’t realize that Blaytz isn’t here?” Larka continues, aided by Thace’s calming presence. “He’s dead and Zarkon won’t stop until you’re all dead and he has the Lions.”

“What would you have me do?” Alfor asks, a thread of sarcasm in his words. “Evacuate the entire planet and move them where? This isn’t as simple as you wish it to be, Larka.”

“I-I know, but there has to be a—”

“Perhaps there is,” Amue interrupts, moving back towards her husband, her long skirts swishing against the cold floor. “What if we move the Lions, separate them, far from each other... where Zarkon can’t find them?”


	3. Part Three

The quintant goes by in a frenetic blur. Queen Amue’s plan seems simple enough: separate the Lions and pray to the Ancients that Zarkon does not find them. It seems to be sheer dumb luck in keeping them from him, but Trigel agrees with Amue’s plan. Gyrgan is the one who insists that Alfor stays on Altea. If there is to be an invasion, Alfor cannot leave the planet until after the evacuation has commenced. 

He spends the next few vargas arguing with Blue and Red to let Larka and Amue pilot them. So far, they have both been stubborn and almost seem flabbergasted by Alfor’s suggestion. But Larka doesn’t deny the pull she feels to Blue and the burning sensation behind her eyes. 

Larka and Thace are heading to the hanger in search of Alfor and Gyrgan after spending the afternoon in the war room with Trigel. Apparently, there has been some headway in Alfor’s coaxing. At least when it comes to Blue. She’s friendly and playful, her disposition suited in helping others no matter the cost. With her sensitivity, she understands the severity of the situation.

“If this works, you should take the shuttle back to Gal,” Larka instructs, plainly. She’s dully aware of the escort guards flanking them. She doesn’t know whether they’re for the Galra visitor’s protection or for the Altean people’s comfort. She sees the side-glances a few council members send their way. 

Thace furrows his eyebrows. “What are you talking about? I’m going with you.”

Larka cuts him a look. “Don’t be ridiculous. You’ve done enough for me already.”

“And I’ll see this through with you.”

“You need to go back,” Larka sighs. “Your absence may draw unwanted attention.”

Thace softly chuckles, “And you think the disappearance of a pilot is going to call more attention over the missing daughter of the Emperor?”

Larka fights to keep the smile off her face. 

“If you take the Blue Lion by yourself, how are you going to get back to Gal?” Thace asks, the humor gone from his voice.

Larka purses her lips, silently agitated by the truth in Thace’s words. He’s not wrong. But she’d be lying if she said she hadn’t thought of that. She could stay on that primitive world; she had the shapeshifting capabilities to blend in with any society she approaches. Perhaps she could grow old, live her life far away from the Empire, watching as another species climbed the evolutionary chain. But how long would it take before she thirsted for quintessence? What would it take for her to use a seemingly endless supply from a planet? That would not make her any different than the druids she avoided…

“Fine,” she relents, “you can come with me. We’ll drop the Blue Lion off on some abandoned rock and take your shuttle back to Gal.”

As they turn a corner leading through an aqueduct garden and towards the Castle of Lions, Larka halts. Thace, who is about to say something else, nearly bumps into her followed by the guards. 

“Quiznak,” Larka curses under her breath. 

“Larka!” 

It’s Allura. Pristine and dignified and smiling warmly as if no time has passed since Daibazaal’s destruction and this exact moment. How she envies Allura’s poise… Her cousin who has been at the end of the corridor, hurrying from the entrance of the Castle of Lions, scampers down the airy hall. Her skirts whirl around her and she looks soft in the brightness of the garden, the water casting sharp slices of light across their faces.

Allura launches herself at Larka, wrapping her arms around and embracing her. Larka remembers when they were children, tackling each other in hallways and hugging to see who would let go first. 

“It’s been so long, cousin,” she says in Larka’s ear. The Galran princess feels a pang of guilt as she returns the hug, squeezing with more force than anticipated. Allura is a familiar face that she hasn’t realized she would miss so much. Allura’s soft wavy hair smells of flowers and sunshine. Her smile brightens up any room, even in the wild unfiltered light of the aqueduct garden. Suddenly, Allura pulls away, her gaze questioning and filled with worry. “Why _are_ you here?”

Larka can only imagine what is going through Allura’s head and it’s why she didn’t want to see her cousin in the first place. Exile, espionage, in need of refuge. The possibilities are endless, but she has no time for this. 

“Is it about the Lions?” Allura continues during Larka’s silence, eager to always fill the gaps in her cousin’s momentary ineptitude. She and Allura have always been two sides of the same coin. “Father won’t allow me in the hangers, but he wants Coran and I to meet with him at the bridge later tonight.”

Larka’s throat runs dry at the unknowing assumption. She knows the location of the sleep pods. With unease boiling over in her belly, Larka licks her lips and forces a smile. “It’s about the Lions. I’m just here to make sure my father’s connection to Black is broken.” It’s a haphazard lie that makes Thace chuff under his breath, but she subtly steps on his foot. He makes a wheezing sound and grits his teeth. 

Allura must notice the movement because she flicks her gaze back and forth between Larka and Thace. She raises an eyebrow and smiles. 

“Who is—?” Allura asks. 

“We really must hurry,” Larka interrupts. “Your father’s waiting, probably very impatiently.”

Allura cocks her head, perceptive as always. “We’ll see each other later?” 

Larka hastily nods. “Of course.”

“You promise?”

Larka bites her tongue, eyes watering for a moment before she blinks back her tears. She loosely reaches out for Thace’s hand behind her, holds it for comfort and eased by the warmth from this stranger. He takes the lead, pulling her away from a situation that she’s slowly losing control of. 

“I promise.”

\--

The Blue Lion is a behemoth. All of the Lions are gargantuan, but there is something in the Blue Lion’s knowing gaze that attracts her towards the quintessence. Blue really does see the ramifications of the actions they are about to take. Larka feels the pull, the gripping madness that pulses in her chest. The brief memory of Blaytz surfaces in her mind: his eager smiling face as he gave her a gift at her sixth equinox festival. 

_“I know how much you love your books, little Larka,”_ he rubbed her head playfully, messing up the elaborate braids coiled on her head. It had taken her mother vargas to complete the Altean fashion trend. But Larka hadn’t cared. Uncle Blaytz gave her a gift, a field guide for his planet of Nalquod, explaining the various fauna and flora. 

Blue knows of her, knows who she was to Blaytz. Knows that she isn’t her father, but someone with her own hopes and dreams. The Lion readily accepts the hybrid princess. 

“You feel it, right?” Alfor asks from behind her. 

She nods, feeling the incredible sensation. The connection she feels to something greater than herself. How can her father destroy such a meaningful allegiance?

Alfor orders a few soldiers to load Thace’s ship in to the cargo space of Blue’s belly. 

“We won’t be able to return to Altea,” Larka says to Alfor as she loosely braids her hair back and recalibrates her flight suit. 

“I know,” Alfor remarks. “There can’t be any evidence of your involvement in the Lions’ disappearances. He’ll believe me when I say that I’ve destroyed them.”

He sounds like he’s trying to convince himself. 

“Promise me, Larka,” Alfor says, taking a step towards her. “Promise you’ll get to Gal safely.”

Larka nods, but catches herself just as Alfor pulls her into his embrace. She hugs him back.

“Your mother would be proud,” he says.

Larka doubts that, but she gives him a watery smile. When they pull away, Alfor fixes his gaze on Thace.

“Keep her safe,” Alfor says, his tone unyielding. 

“Of course, King Alfor,” Thace answers, bowing at the waist. 

“What are you going to tell Allura?” Larka blurts out.

Alfor shakes his head. “I don’t know, but I have a contingency plan in order.”

There’s a finality in his voice and it makes her gut clench. She hopes he can evacuate everyone in time, but it seems like he’s willing to sacrifice his planet and people in a fight he can’t possibly win. Zarkon will annihilate Alfor. The thought that her father is willing to destroy his best friend for control of Voltron dampens her thoughts of hope. 

With final goodbyes and a thorny soreness caused by the lies she told Allura, she and Thace board Blue.

\--

The toggles thrum beneath her hands. They’re clenching so tightly, Larka fears they’ll break. Thace has stood by her side the entire time. Occasionally making small talk, he gives her silence most of the trip. The awkward quiet gaps between them are gone. It’s a comfortable silence between two people forced into an unlikely situation. 

“This is so confusing,” Larka says, chewing on her lower lip. She wonders how neurotic she looks. 

“For your first time piloting anything,” Thace comments, “you’re doing good.”

“Not great?” she quips. 

Thace stifles a chuckle. “You have a neural link with this Lion, I think you’ve managed to one-up me.”

“Have you found anything suitable?” Larka asks.

Thace leans against the back of the pilot seat, swiping through the portable mapping datapad Gyrgan handed him. 

“There’s a star system a quadrant away,” he says, turning around to show her. “A waterworld, third planet from its sun.”

Larka squints. “You want me to park her on a water planet.”

“It’s suitable place for her, right? She does well in the water.”

“I’m not sticking her in some abyss,” she grimaces. 

Thace chuffs, swiping through the screen. “There’s still a lot of land there. Why don’t we just take a closer look?”

“Alright.” Larka turns on the boost, feeling Blue practically glide through space, zooming past frozen rocks and clouds of cosmic dust. She feels the pull of large gaseous planets, rotating and revolving. They pass a rocky debris field. It takes a while as Blue clearly isn’t well adjusted for this type of terrain or it may just be Larka’s neophyte piloting.

“Take us in slow,” Thace says as Blue pings that they’re closing in on their tentative destination. Larka uses the gravity of a dusty rock planet to slingshot around. What she sees in the next several doboshes takes her breath away. 

A blue marble speckled in green land and white clouds sits in the black void. Its star glints behind her, helping display her beautiful, yet small size. 

“This one,” Larka says. “Thace, we’ll put her down here.”

She misses the slight smile he sends her way. 

“Can you scan the planet?” she asks, looking over at him and the datapad in his hands.

“I can’t use this,” he says, “but there should be controls. Blue should—”

As on instinct from hearing their conversation or knowing what she wants, Blue’s screen flickers and the dashboard scrolls through a few controls.

“Oh,” she blushes in surprise, before tapping a series of instructions. Not before long Blue is scanning the water planet and sending back the data. It cascades down the right side of her visor. 

“The planet and its dominant inhabitants seem to be in their primitive stages,” she says. “Some are even migrating. More so than they’ve ever done before.”

“How is she even gathering this much intel?” Thace asks.

“It might be the quintessence,” she answers, reading through the data. “It’s in every living thing. It is in these planets. In the Lions of Voltron. It’s in everything our people consume. Perhaps Blue can call on the planet’s quintessence, learn everything that has happened to it and what is happening right now.” 

“It’s difficult to believe that Daibazaal was like this.”

Larka looks over at him. “What do you mean?”

He’s still staring out the window at the blue planet. “Just that we were once primitive, just developing rudimentary technology. And look at us now.”

Larka swallows. “Well, let’s hope they don’t end up like us.”

Thace chuffs in mild agreement.

Blue takes them in after finding a perfect location. One hidden deep in a mountainous region of rock. She’ll be buried underneath it, safe and far away from Zarkon’s reach. Thace bails out of the cargo bay just before she manages to land Blue in the shadow of night. After several scans, Larka becomes aware of the loneliness in this oasis. No one will find the Blue Lion. She walks her into an alcove, a hidden cave, and tumbles out of the pilot seat just as Blue settles down. She hears Thace land the shuttle outside the cave, but it takes all her energy to pull away, just in time to watch Blue raise her particle barrier. 

“You’ll be okay out here by yourself, right?” she asks. Blue only purrs, satisfied with everyone’s decision. 

\--

“So, where are you from?” Larka asks, as she sits in the co-pilot seat again as Thace takes them back to the Gal colony. 

“I assume you mean on Daibazaal? The Highlands,” he answers. “The central village of Zepogar.”

Larka nods, leaning back in her seat to watch Thace fly them through space. “I was only there a couple of times, never for long and very rarely outside in public. But I remember it was really… green.”

Thace chuckles. 

“Where is your family now?” 

Thace tenses for a moment. “My father died at the rift and my mother died of an illness a deca-phoeb after Daibazaal was destroyed. People in my clan, my village, they said that it might have been shock. But no one really knows for sure. It wasn’t everyone’s top priority to figure out what had happened.”

“I’m sorry,” Larka says softly. 

Thace shrugs, but she can see the tense lines on his forehead. A boy forced to mature faster than what he was supposed to. It’s happened to all of them. 

“But my dam is still alive,” he says with a look of relief. “He left Central Command six phoebs ago for the colony.”

“Oh!” she says, raising her eyebrows. “What’s his name? Where is he now?”

Thace’s smile is bright and it makes Larka’s chest ache and palms sweat. Her heart flutters beneath her chest. She likes that smile.

“His name is Kythel. He’s working at one of the farms outside the city.”

“Kythel?” Larka grins. “I like that name.”


End file.
